


A Feeling of Goodwill

by 13thSyndrome



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Intimacy, M/M, Modern Era, Money, Painting, Romance, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, freelance work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thSyndrome/pseuds/13thSyndrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were always a little rough around the edges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Feeling of Goodwill

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Day 2 of JeanMarco Week 2015. The prompts are Electric or Paint. I chose paint, of course.

A Feeling of Goodwill

 

* * *

  
Jean had a nasty habit.

  
"For the last time, I am not joining you on another desperate escapade to make a quick buck!"

  
He liked to post adds online and rent himself out every two weeks. He could be rented out for anything. From simple things like delivering someone's groceries to more unsavory practices like washing some stranger's car in his underwear.

  
I could hear him huff on the other line.

  
"C'mon, Marco. Just this once?"

  
"No."

  
"It's not anything illegal or sexual this time."

  
"I really hope--. You know what? No."

  
"Don't make me say it. Marco, I need you. C'mon."

  
"No way. I mean--. I'll go with you to make sure you aren't sliced up and stuffed in a fridge somewhere, but I am not doing anything until I know it's legitimate."

  
He whined and eventually agreed.

  
"I'll pick you up in an hour then."

* * *

  
"You know, if you got a job, you wouldn't have to do all this useless freelance work."

  
We were riding along a bumpy dirt road, and Jean's car just wasn't made for it. His tires needed to be rotated out. I was getting carsick from bouncing around in my seat, and, from the looks of it, Jean wasn't feeling too hot either. We were pale and sweaty. My arms stuck to the seat like wet paper. The humidity suffocated us in the car; his AC didn't work.

  
"And be strapped down for the rest of my life? No thanks, ass-wipe."

  
I looked over at him. His hands were gripping the steering wheel, and I felt bad for pissing him off. We were already in this situation. It was too late to complain about it. Wanting to lighten the mood, I purred,

  
"I'd strap you down in a heartbeat."

  
Instead of scoffing, his eyes softened. He looked a little upset.

  
"Don't say those things," he said, "Don't say things you don't mean."

  
I suppose I could have watched my words from that point on, but he was irritating me.

  
"Wow. You're sensitive today."

  
I could hear him practically growl under his breath.

  
"Marco, why don't you just go fuck yours--."

  
"We're here."

  
We arrived at a sizable two-story house that looked abandoned and ragged. Weeds ran freely across the property. The windows were cracked and slick with dirt and mold. The most notable decay was the way the paint, dry and neglected, fell off the walls. The moment Jean parked, I hopped out of the car, deciding to look around first. I'd made a comment about being stuffed into a fridge, but it suddenly felt like more of a prediction than a joke.

  
I walked up the front porch and found a box with about five cans of paint and an envelope that had "Jean" scribbled on the front of it.

  
"What's that?"

  
I tossed him the envelope and looked over the paint. It all looked relatively new, but where was everyone? Each canister was filled with a different color: blue, green, purple, yellow, and hot pink, respectively. I stood up and cracked my back. He had a small note tucked between his fingers.

  
"Well," I said, "What does it say?"

  
He handed me the letter:

  
_Dear Jean,_

  
_I am out of town, so I won't be there. I need you to paint one of the bedrooms upstairs. I have a post-it note on the door, so you'll know which one it is. You can paint whatever you want. I just need it done by today. The key is under the rug._

  
_Thanks,_   
_Erwin S._

Without looking up, I said,

  
"Jean, this is--."

  
"Awesome!" he cut in, "He left triple what I would usually get for this kind of work."

  
"Jean, please. If we go into that house, we're going to get mugged or eaten by this Erwin guy. Let's just go."

  
"Marco, I'm not going to take his money and leave. I have a little more integrity than that, and--."

  
"But--."

  
"And I need the money. We both know that. Now, help me find this key."

  
I groaned, having little choice but to follow him inside.

* * *

  
"Well, let's do this. "

  
The bedroom was fairly large, and a modestly sized window was kept open on the left side. Masking tape had been carefully applied around outlets and the edges where ceiling met wall. Large tarps were laid meticulously on the floor.

  
We cracked open our first can of paint, sunrise yellow in #34. Paintbrushes in hand, we didn't really have a plan, but the letter said it didn't matter. Right?

  
Before I could get a word out, Jean grabbed the can, and the snapping sound of liquid echoed around the room.

  
Paint dripped freely where Jean had splashed the wall. Yellow pooled at the base of our feet.

  
"What are you doing?"

  
I shouldn't have asked.

  
Sweetly, he glanced in my direction, smiled, and walked over. I took a step back and found myself tripping over one of the tarps. He had a wet brush in his hand.

  
"Jean... Think about what--. Hey!"

  
It was too late. After that, it was an all out war.

  
Yellow, purple, green, and hot pink paints were strewn about the room. The walls were a complete disaster, and the floor was next to unmentionable. The fumes of the paint were strong, despite the open window.

  
Jean ducked when I hurled a cup of dark green at him, and we both watched as it took an unexpected path, going right out the window.

  
"Shit," he laughed, stretching the word between inhales and gasps.

  
I was laughing too, until we both realized there was one color left: cobalt in #5. We both dived for the can, but I was just a second faster. I kept the can just out of his grip. With Jean's ferocity, being the taller one helped me out a lot.

  
We both struggled over the can, arms tangling around each other until he barreled into my side and slammed me against the wall. I accidentally dropped the paint, and we both cried out as it leaked along the floor.

  
I stared him down, but my anger diffused from how ridiculous we looked. We were as colorful as the room. I felt something wet dribble down my temple. Half his hair was stained with a hideous hot pink. It was incredibly satisfying.

  
Propped against the wall, I sighed, contended.

  
Jean leaned into me then, and I was slow to react. We were friends. We always had been, but I wrapped my arms around him. He did not hesitate, and I dropped my arms.

  
His hands cupped the sides of my face. He wasn't exactly gentle about doing it, but he was burning red as he spoke.

  
"You feel it too, right?"

  
I could barely hear the words, as they rushed passed his lips. I could barely register the slight nodding of my head.

  
"Fuck."

  
I kissed him, light and a little awkward at first. We weren't used to this. I wasn't sure if it was something we were ready for. I was about to give him some air, when he dived in, digging his fingers into my back.

  
I rocked against him, and he bit my lip. He snickered, when I started to unbutton his shirt.

  
"Is this crazy?" he breathed out. I couldn't help but laugh again.

  
Even if it was, I stayed silent. We were guided by a change in the air, a feeling of goodwill.

  
Reminding myself that we were in someone else's house, I gently pushed him away, and he shook a little. Nerves, most likely.

  
"I've--. We've better get going," I said, "It'll get dark soon."

  
He looked a bit fired up, readjusting his clothes and hair.

  
"Yeah. Yeah. You're right."

  
After that, we cleaned up the best we could and left.

  
In the car, he slept, and I noticed the dimming of sky. It enveloped everything in gray until we too were consumed.

  
The night passed over us. I inhaled deeply as I drove, buried in the strong scent of colorless paint; buried in the rich scent of Jean.


End file.
